


Masquerade

by Finnland



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, Cameras, Fanboy Tim, Gen, Oneshot, Past Character Death, batfam, charity galas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:04:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7014139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finnland/pseuds/Finnland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim couldn't help but notice that among this den of devils and thieves, this man, though the only enigma in the room, was the only one not wearing that damned fake smile. And it bothered Tim all the more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

Tim had been unable to sleep for the past couple days. Ever since his father announced proudly over the dinner table that he would have the honor of accompanying them to the prestigious Wayne Gala. Tim had been so overjoyed that not even his mother's sharp reprimand of his posture at the table (he had been nearly bouncing in his seat) could diminish his excitement. At night, Tim would sit underneath the covers of his bed, pen light propped in his mouth as his hands busied jotting down notes and ideas. As he worked, he hadn't even been bothered by that voice in the back of his head that wished his parents would notice the faint glow of his light and tell him to go to sleep.

Tim had to be prepared. He was going to the Wayne Manner after all. He was going to finally meet The Batman and his sidekicks face to face. The idea terrified the boy. His stomach churned nervously and his heart started to race, but the buzz in his head was just strong enough to overpower his nerves. It only made Tim think more. He jotted down any scenario that could possibly occur in his introduction to the Waynes. From their attention passing over him completely, to the Riddler busting in and holding the Waynes hostage until Tim solved the given puzzle...the boy had it written down.

He whispered his scripted greetings to the walls of his bedroom. He made sure his words were perfect and that he spoke fluidly. Possible speeches, monologues of praise, and multiple versions of his personal biography were memorized, practiced, and stored in the back of his brain. He even timed each, careful to remember in case his heroes seemed rushed. It wouldn't do him any good to talk their ears off, now would it? And what if they had to leave early in order to stop another Arkham breakout?

When it was light, Tim would stand in front of the mirror. He stared at his scrawny form disapprovingly. Despite his youth, he wasn't thrilled with how much smaller he'd be in comparison to the vigilantes. They'd be less than impressed with him physically for sure. If he had had more time, Tim would have looked into a diet that would encourage growth (he made a mental note to look it up later though). In the mirror he meticulously studied his stance. He practiced faces, doing his best to master his facial expressions in the short amount of time he had been allotted. 

He strived for perfection, and, for once, it wasn't for the sake of his mother.

 

The night finally arrived. The intensity of the butterflies in Tim's stomach redoubled. His nerves left him restless and he had to shove his hands in his pockets in order to hide how they shook. In the final moments before he left his house, as his mother knelt down to fix his already straight bow tie, Tim considered throwing his entire plan away. He was terrified. The prospect of meeting the Batman, even in the form of his pseudo identity Bruce Wayne, suddenly held no appeal. And the Robins-... Nope. No, it would be much easier to just tell his parents that he was ill. Incidentally, staying alone in this dark, spacious house seemed much more agreeable. 

Tim wasn't sure if it was fortunate for him or not that he choked on his own saliva before he could utter the damning words. 

Time moved too fast for Tim in those next moments, being whisked away to the Wayne manor before the poor boy had time to recollect himself (and it didn't help that they lived so close). Tim's father sauntered into the building like he owned the place while his mother murmured disapprovingly at how stiff her son's legs had become and lead/shoved him into the crowded ballroom.

Tim only had a moment to gawk at the size of the function. Never had he seen so many of Gotham's socialites in one place before, each garnered in their finest clothing. This, combined with the luxurious food served on silver platters by limber servers, the live music, and the sheer grandness and size of the manor hosting all of this made it all so clear to Tim as to why so many of Gotham's villains targeted such events.

His parents guided him through the crowds, eyes locked on only one thing that Tim could not see from behind all the adults towering over him. It was once the crowds finally parted that Tim knew exactly where they were headed. His body grew stiff once again but that didn't stop his parents from their charge towards Bruce Wayne.

Tim's mind reeled in a mixture of pure fear and awe. There he was. THE Bruce Wayne, AKA The Prince of Gotham. Famous billionaire, philanthropist, and best of all (known to none but Tim) THE Batman.

He was larger than Tim had expected. He not only towered over Tim, but nearly everyone nearby. If his height wasn't intimidating enough, then the sheer width of his body was. Tim didn't need to imagine how much raw muscle was hidden underneath that thousand dollar tux. He'd stared at too many photographs of the Bat to know. Still, his size was shocking. Tim had realized in that moment that there was only so much that could be conveyed simply through photographs. 

Being so close to the giant vigilante, Tim started to wonder why people in Gotham even still committed crime.

Tim was so struck by the man that he hadn't even registered how Bruce and his parents had begun conversing. It wasn't until those striking blue eyes looked down into his own that he was jolted back into reality. The cruel, heart-stopping reality.

“So you are the Timothy Drake I've been hearing so much about.” Bruce commented in his deep voice that sounded nothing like the one he had overheard interrogating criminals in the night. It was too light, too...chipper. The wide, charismatic smile that Gotham's knight gave him only further disarmed the boy. He was at a loss of words until an irritated nudge from his mother knocked his brain back into place.  
“Y-yes sir. I am.” Tim swallowed nervously before continuing, “Timothy Drake. Nice to meet you.”  
Bruce chuckled at the reiteration and took the small hand that Tim hadn't even realized he was offering, shaking it curtly.

“Bruce Wayne.” he smiled.

“Yes, I know.”

The words flew off of Tim's tongue without permission, causing the child's face to blanch and for the billionaire to bark out another laugh.

So much for all that practice, eh Drake?

Shame immediately spurned the boy to rectify. All at once, 5 different speeches the boy had prepared came to mind.  
“It's, uh- nice to meet you, I'm a student at Gotham Prep, I read about you all the time in the papers and- and I'm a big fan of your work-.”

Tim clamped his mouth shut, cheeks flushing red and his mind reeling in the horror of what mess had just sprung from his mouth. Not to mention that he had intentionally alluded to the fact that the man was Batman. Not that the words had been specific enough to be damning, but Tim was too embarrassed to realize that and momentarily believed he had just given his hero away.

Bruce didn't really give any sign that Tim's rambling bothered him (nor that he had just been outed by a child). He just shot Tim another flashy smile, a nod, and an affirmation that he was also glad to make Timothy's acquaintance. Tim wanted to shrink back, to abort mission and disappear into the masses, but his mother's grip on his shoulders remained firm, keeping him rooted to the spot.

“Don't mind our Timothy, this is his first social function after all. He's still a bit shy.” his mother's buttery voice attempted to rectify. 

“Yes, but he's a real genius, this one.” His father added in, patting Tim on the back proudly. It was a feeling that was foreign to Tim and caused his brows to narrow in confusion. “He's already skipped a few grades, and is the top of his class to boot!”

“Yes, yes,” his mother added in again, “and he's perfectly well behaved. Already a proper gentleman.”

“Sounds like you've raised the perfect heir of Drake Industries.” Bruce commented, spurning a quick agreement from his father before the man continued to ramble off about this 'perfect heir' of his. They went on and on about how grand Tim would be, how he would be the key to the company's greatness.

In the meantime, Tim was unable to process just exactly was going on. This was a scenario the young genius had not planned for. He hadn't even considered this occurring. Heir of his father's company? Sure, it made sense logically, but his parents had never even once mentioned that to him. In fact, most of the things they said were things he'd never heard leave their mouths before. Tim stared up questioningly (and dared he say, even hopefully) at his parents. 

It doesn't take long listening to their endless praise for Tim to realize that he hates it. Makes his stomach drop and the back of his neck prickle. It's not right. Despite waiting his whole life to hear such words. Because they aren't really praising him. He can see in their eyes; can see the masks on their faces as clear as day. It isn't until Bruce begins to go along with them as well- praising Tim for his apparent achievements- that Tim recognizes Bruce's mask.

His heart drops a quickly as it had risen. He doesn't know why he didn't recognize it earlier. He doesn't know why he hadn't had expected it. He also doesn't know why Bruce's mask hurts him more than his parents'.

The moment his mother's grip on him weakens, Tim slips from her grasp, slinking back into the roar of the party. He allows himself to disappear like he is often prone to do. He snorts humorously at the thought that his parents hadn't even bothered to tell Bruce Wayne about this ability of his. It was his finest quality, after all. 

Tim spent his time just ghosting about the hall, catching snippets of conversation and rumors being passed between occupants. Though he found it more interesting just trying to comprehend that he was, in fact, standing in the Wayne manor at that very moment. He let his mind wonder on the topic, trying to figure out where the Waynes would possibly keep their gear and supplies for their nighttime occupation. The manor was certainly big enough, though with Bruce's daytime persona and the magnitude of his parties, Tim doubted they would be anywhere in plain sight. Underground was what the child had deduced was the most logical option. Either that, or somewhere connected to the Wayne Enterprises building. But while that would give the Batman easy access to the city, it would be harder to access in the case of an emergency...  
Underground lair it was then. The idea spurned a new excitement in Tim. To think, just beneath his feet could be the Batman's secret lair. He started to really wish that he had brought his camera. Not sure why exactly, considering he wouldn't be able to get any pictures of it.

Tim wasn't sure how long he'd been distracting himself with such thoughts before he found them. Well, more like they found him.

He was just making his way towards the food tables when another guest stepped clumsily from the group, already shamelessly intoxicated by the complimentary alcohol. The man's long and unsteady stride combined with Tim's wondering mind and the boy found himself suddenly stumbling forward. Arms shot out in vain hope to regain his balance or catch something before he crashes onto the tables filled with expensive dishes and catering. All he had time to think about in that moment was how mortified his mother would be with him for causing such a mess.

“Whoa there!” a voice exclaimed in his ears before something caught onto his hand, using his momentum to spin him around tactfully and landing him face first into something warm, but firm. A second later there is a pressure on his shoulders as he's pushed back onto his feet. The grip doesn't loosen until he's managed to regain his balance.

“That was a close one. You okay kid?”

Tim glances up at his rescuer as he begins to rub his slightly sore nose. His mouth opens to give a quick thanks when his words catch in his throat entirely and his blue eyes triple in size. He's sure that his heart probably stopped at some point in shock at the sight of Nightwing's mask-less face staring down at him. 

Dick Grayson, his mind corrects and supplies him on his full profile. Former acrobat in Haley's Traveling Circus and member of the famous Flying Graysons. Taken in by Bruce Wayne after his parents were murdered by Tony Zucco, and made the first Robin not long after. Now the current Nightwing. He is one of only 3 acrobats in the world that can preform a quadruple flip. Tim has seen it too many times in person to doubt the truthfulness of that fact. 

Dick smiles sheepishly at Tim's gawking, waving a hand over his face in attempt to get a reaction.  
“Um, hello? I mean, I know I have a great body, but I didn't think my abs were firm enough to give brain damage.”

The teen's comments shake Tim from his stupor and he immediately takes a cautious step back, gasping in shock and feeling the blood rush to his cheeks in embarrassment.

“I'm sorry I'm sorry!” 

“There you are! Glad to see you're still with us.” Dick chuckled, flashing Tim his bright, award-winning smile that the boy had seen in so many photographs. It was almost too wide...though Tim didn't dwell on that thought for long. He was once again struck by the fact that he was standing before the original Robin. 

“You're Dick Grayson!” Tim blurts out suddenly, not able to hide the surprise in his voice. That voice in the back of his mind once again chides him for his lack of control. It also mentally slaps him at his surprise. Of course Dick Grayson would be here! He was at Wayne manor after all!

Dick snorts in amusement, not unlike Bruce Wayne did with him earlier.

“I suppose I am. Mind evening the playing field since you obviously already know who I am?”

That was just an invitation for disaster with how shot Tim's nerves were. “Ah! Yes, of course! Tim Drake. I'm a big fan of yours! I mean- well, in the circus. I watched one of your shows. You might not remember but we took a picture together. You let me sit in your lap because I was so nervous.”

Tim wondered how embarrassed one could be before they keeled over. He'd clamped his mouth shut and tightened his already stick-straight posture.

“Oh?” Dick commented, looking all the more curious, though his giant smile remained, “And how did you like the show?”

I watched your parents die. “The best circus I've ever been to.” 

It wasn't a lie. It was the first circus performance that Tim had ever attended, and he'd refused to go back to one since.

Tim wasn't sure if he had properly masked his real thoughts or not, but if the former acrobat's unfaltering grin was was anything to go by, he apparently did.

“That's great to hear.” Dick commented, his voice suddenly sounding almost rehearsed. Tim did feel his smile falter this time, eyes staring at the teen's consistent smile and charming attitude. While he knew from observation that Dick Grayson was an upbeat, charismatic person, this Dick didn't seem to fit Tim's perception of the vigilante. This version of Dick Grayson almost seemed to be putting on a show, emphasizing each phrase, every expression. Just like with his parents and...and Bruce Wayne.

A wave of disappointment ran through Tim, and he was sure he was visibly showing said emotion.

“Tim? You okay?”

“Yeah. Just fine.” 

Dick seemed bewildered. He'd probably never received such dejection toward his charismatic performance before, yet he didn't appear all that worried by it either. He did open his mouth to say something else when he was cut off by another voice.

“Dick! How much longer do we need to strut around these dumb ass peacocks?”

Both gazes shot towards the approaching figure. Tim's jaw nearly dropped, not only at the appearance of his youngest and final hero, but by the harsh language that so boldly left his lips.

Jason Todd. Youngest ward of billionaire Bruce Wayne and the current Robin. Lived on the streets before he was taken in by Bruce. Tim didn't have much more information on the boy besides the fact that he smoked when he was alone on rooftops, excelled in hand to hand combat, and had a visible soft spot for women and children. He stopped in front of his adopted brother, irritated scowl and assertive stance completely clashing with his fine tux and gelled back hair. 

“Jay!” Dick cried out in horror, that collected mask that he had been wearing cracking for the first time, “You shouldn't be speaking like that around here. If Alfred heard you-”

“I'll speak however I damn well please!” Jason retorted, purposely raising his voice. A few patrons took a glance towards the trio, casting them (or Jason) looks between pitying and disgusted. 

Dick grabbed his brother by the shoulder and turned him away, mouth moving fast as he rattled off a speech that, judging from Jason's eye-roll, was one he had heard many times already. In the mean time, Tim couldn't help but stare. Because this was Robin (both Robins, really). The sidekick of Gotham's savior. 

To the public, Robin was the distraction. The one to take down the more dimwitted crooks while Batman chased after the bigger fish. He was the extra pair of hands. The look out. The soldier. The heir.  
But Tim saw Robin as so much more.

Robin was the light to Batman's darkness. His anchor. The bright boy kept the dark man in check. Robin protected Batman from Gotham's encroaching darkness. While Batman symbolized justice, Robin symbolized hope. His bright colors a constant reminder that the sun would always rise. Tim had witnessed it from the lenses of his camera. He had seen how Robin comforted the victims of the crimes they foiled, how the Boy Wonder humbled the hesitant criminals, how Robin's wide grin and snappy comments were the only thing that managed to make the Bat crack a smile.

Just as Gotham needed Batman, the Batman needed Robin. He was essential. 

“Take a picture, kid. It'll last longer.”

The comment caused Tim to flinch, jumping back from his thoughts. His first realization was that he had still been staring- gawking, really- at the two younger vigilantes. His first thought was that he'd already taken plenty of pictures of the two and intended to take more. Thankfully, however, he was able to suppress the urge to speak those thoughts aloud. The sharp, untrusting look that Jason Todd was shooting him only increased his theory of how badly that would have ended up. 

“Jason,” Dick scolded, “What did I just tell you?”

The teen didn't even bother to respond to his elder, instead turning his gaze away from Tim and rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. Tim noticed just how stiff Jason appeared in the expensive apparel, obviously still not used to it despite the number of galas he had accompanied his guardian to. 

“Whatever. If you won't help me stage an escape I'll do it myself.” Jason stated before stomping off to disappear into the crowds.

“Don't you dare!” Dick shot off after his brother, just managing to turn and shoot Tim an apologetic look before retreating from the boy's view.

Tim remained frozen in place, staring after his Robins. In fact, his entire being felt frozen solid. He wasn't able to think, wasn't able to feel. Only stand, stare, and take everything in. It was like Mr. Freeze had broken in and turned him into a block of ice. He'd almost wished that was the case,otherwise he wouldn't have had to deal with the near crippling pain of crushed expectations once the ice began to thaw.

Though still not completely undeterred, Tim shot out in the direction that the Robins had disappeared in. Pushing through the crowd and craning his head in an attempt to see above the towering adults. It was when he heard a familiar voice calling out that his attention was steered in the proper direction. 

Surrounded by a variety of faces and flashing cameras stood the Wayne family. Bruce chatted animatedly to a young, blond journalist while Dick pushed a reluctant Jason into their guardians side, already armed with a photogenic smile towards the flashing cameras. It didn't take long before Bruce put an arm around each of his wards and offered just as cheesy of a smile to the blood thirsty paparazzi. Jason tried his best not to look too annoyed, but the best he managed to pull of was a skittish frown. 

The scene only made Tim's heart lurch painfully as he was reminded of the disastrous introduction of him and his heroes. The superficiality of it all making him cringe and turn his gaze away. Not long later Tim spotted the two Wayne boys again, making their way from the party. Going from the lively expression on Jason's face, Tim wouldn't be seeing them again this evening (not unless he too took to the rooftops with his camera). That was the moment he had really given up on talking to the vigilantes that evening.

When his parents found him some time later they informed him irritably that Bruce had left with a woman earlier and had not returned. With no one left they considered worthy enough to impress, the Drakes decided to leave the party. Tim had stared blankly out the cadillac window and into the heavy darkness, wondering just how much Bruce Wayne paid his women to leave early, escaping from a back door of the manor and lying about how they spent their night. 

That night Tim lay in bed. His eyes stared blankly at the white ceiling over his head while his fingers rubbed gently into the camera in his hands. Index finger slowing tapping, ghosting over the shutter button. 

For years Tim had only ever really seen his heroes from behind the lenses of his camera. That night, he'd been hoping to see them in person. He was sorely let down, instead being introduced to the cheap masks that every wealthy Gothamite wore. The people he met that night were no more than the royalty that flaunted themselves in the papers.

But....but why had Tim expected anything different? He had been introduced to the city's vigilantes as the Waynes, and thus, they had acted like the Waynes. Tim hated these masks they wore, but at the same time recognized its necessity. He knew that. Had known that for a long time, and yet...he had expected it to be different. He'd wanted to meet the real Waynes and not just Gotham's Waynes.

Tim turned to set his camera safely aside on his night stand, taking in a heavy sigh in defeat. Forcing his eyes closed Tim tried to forget. Tried to banish his disappointment with pure logic, but as usual, it didn't do much. He could only picture Batman's plastic smile, Nightwing's fake interest, and Robin's....

Robin's what? His harsh language? Suspecting glare? Cold shoulder? Tim opened his eyes and sat up, mind already starting to whirl. Robin, no, Jason had been different. He didn't wear a mask, at least, not like the rest of them. Jason had been clearly distant and uncomfortable, but he hadn't shied away or hidden behind a fake persona. Jason had been Jason. Perhaps he hadn't been Robin that night, but he had been a form of himself. 

Tim allowed himself to slide back down into his pillow, a new sense of determination sprouting inside him.  
So he hadn't really met his heroes like he expected, but that didn't mean he wouldn't later. And he had learned something new about them that night. Glancing at his camera, he thought about all the more pictures he could take. He began devising tactics he could take to better track down his vigilantes, to predict their movements, to get closer, clearer shots and better angles while remaining undetected.

He once again shot up from bed when an idea struck him, drawing himself from the covers to retrieve his penlight and notepad. The action was comfortable and familiar. 

Tonight had been another stint of trial and error. As long as his parents wanted to improve their standing on Gotham's social ladder, Timothy Drake would have more chances with the Waynes. Though for now, Tim decided to stick with what he did best.

Someday, he told himself. Someday he would get to meet the famous Wayne family for they truly were. But until then, he'd be content with just watching them through the lenses of his camera. 

 

o00o00o00o

 

Timothy Drake-Wayne only had so much time to rest his face, take a deep breath and a gulp of his sparkling cider and a handful of aspirin before he was once again armed with a wide, charming smile and a friendly handshake. The next big wig of the night stalked over towards him, expression brightening upon seeing him as if Tim had been an old friend.

Garry Chapman, Tim mentally noted. Member of board of directors at Wayne Enterprises for 4 and a half years. Age 55. Recently divorced after caught cheating on his wife. Now engaged to his mistress who'll be wife #3.   
For him Tim spared a mildly pleasant smile, not bothering to show any teeth, and a curt nod upon taking his hand in a 2.5 second long shake. This was followed by 3 minutes of talk about the company and their rising stocks.

Michael Hansen, age 37, owner of an Industrial park and a series of warehouses in Eastern Gotham. Leases his property to organized crime bosses for the production and spread of illegal drugs and possibly weapons. Proof of involvement is conveniently displaced.  
Tim shakes Hansen's hand 1.5 seconds longer, a wider smile and a mask of fake interest as he asks him how his business is running. It would only be a matter of time before Tim unearthed his corruption and personally placed that evidence into Jim Gordon's hands.

Mary Welching, age 62, wife of Gotham judge, Mark Welching, who is known for taking bribes. Mary seems to be involved in her husband's corruption to a point. Mother of 3, her oldest having been released on bail after killing a family of four in a car accident after driving under the influence. But that info is off the record of course.  
Tim allows some maturity to fall from his face and show his age more, catering to her maternal instincts just a tad. He shares a shorter, seemingly subdued greeting and brief question about her husband's busy work.

 

Tim returns to his neutral mask once she has departed, snatching the caviar covered hors d'oeuvre from the tray of a passing butler to snack on. Taking a glance at his drink he realized he'd have to fetch another from the kitchen soon with how fast he was downing it. (He considered just taking one of the dozens of champagne glasses floating around the room. He had no doubt that would help him get through the night. He also had no doubt that Alfred would kill him if/when he found out.) 

No matter how accustomed to these functions Tim was, he could hardly stand them. Being surrounded by dozens of money grabbers, hasbins and and kiss-ups, each fighting for his attention and hoping to gain his favor (well, Bruce's favor actually) with empty conversation and lip service was not what he'd describe as enjoyable. It made his head whirl and foot tap anxiously. He could be working on a case right now, but no, instead he was stuck subbing in for Bruce. This was his function after all. 

The Wayne Enterprises Charity Ball was the biggest event of the year. It had been planned for months, been an idea of Bruce's for years. It celebrated the start of the largest humanitarian project that the company had ever made, focusing to help the homeless of Crime Alley, specifically the children. The project would build and supply, and employ new boys' and girls' homes, provided donations to help run and supply the free clinics, and establish free drug and alcohol rehab centers. And that was just to name a few of what their donations would cover.

But when Gotham's latest rising crime lord, the Red Hood, blows up a rival gang's drug operation the very night of the Gala, Bruce had no choice but to suit up and abandon the event in favor of stopping the Hood's body count from rising. Batman and Robin had been working diligently to stop the crook ever since he had first made his debut a month or so back. Batman had even called Nightwing up from his post in Bludhaven for assistance with the case.

Robin, unfortunately would have to sit this one out tonight. Bruce Wayne might have been able to be grudgingly excused from his own event, but not without leaving a suitable representative in his place. Despite being a minor, Tim's presence, being the official heir of both Wayne Enterprises and the main shareholder of the failing but still functioning Drake Industries, was almost as good as having Bruce there himself.

That didn't default Tim for his bitterness of the situation, of course. He was just itching for the chance to run down to the Batcave and get an update on the situation with Hood rather than busying himself by profiling his guests.

His growing anxiety was suddenly interrupted and pushed behind a wall when another guest approached.

Emma Rasmussen, Tim recognized, age 28, working head nurse at Gotham General and daughter of director of the hospital. Clear case of nepotism concerning her employment there, but that is hardly a crime in Gotham. Especially considering she is worthy of the position. Emma might be one of the few patrons at this gala who donated for the sake of the people and the project, rather than for a gold plaque with their name on it.  
Tim allowed a bit of himself to slip into his greeting with the woman, giving her a warm handshake and a truly grateful smile. He spoke longer to her, specifically addressing her medical contributions of the project.

When a curvy blond approached him soon afterwards, Tim didn't need to dig deep into his subconscious for the woman's identity and the proper reaction.  
Victoria 'Vicki' Vale. Age 37. Nosy news reporter, ex-lover/flirt of Bruce Wayne, and full time annoyance.   
To her deceiving smile and velvety voice asking him “Where's Bruce?”, Tim responded kindly with an innocent smile and tilt of the head. His voice matching her own tone when he shrugged with the answer of “Not sure. He didn't tell me the name of this one.” 

Her sharp glare and the tightening of her shoulders as she walked away almost made all the small chat worth it. 

“Yeah, I never liked her much either.”

Tim turned sharply to face the unexpected guest suddenly not 5 feet from him. The man watched Vale walk away, blue eyes scanning over her body before hiding his smirk into his drink. Tim blinked confusedly, not only unsure as to where the man had come from, but who the man even was. He certainly wasn't any of the big wigs on the invite list, nor did he seem to be even a part of Gotham's elite. Not after a thorough scan of the man.

He couldn't have been far into his twenties but had a rugged, experienced look about him. A maturity to his face beyond his years. His raven hair was slicked back but a few unruly curls refused to stay in place. He wore a nice tux, made from a quality material that could only custom ordered suits were made from, however, judging by how it fit on certain areas of the man's muscular form, Tim surmised that it had not made for him. It was a small detail that only a boy raised from the cradle of Gotham's elite would recognize.

Tim felt a bit disgruntled that he wasn't familiar with the man. He preferred to stay a step ahead each and every occupant in the room; to always be in the know. He managed a wide, charming smile nonetheless, one that Dick would have been proud of.

“Please forgive me, but you are?”

“Peters. Maxwell Peters.”

Tim waited for more, but when Peters gave him a sideways glance, waiting for Tim to speak next, he obliged quickly, almost feeling a bit sheepish.

“Timothy Drake-Wayne.” He extended his hand out towards his guest which was kindly ignored.

“Thought so. Then that makes you the replacement.” Peters commented, lips lifting in what looked like a sort of mix between an amused smirk and a grimace.

“I beg your pardon?” 

“The replacement for ol' Brucie. Kind of a big deal when the king doesn't come to even his own party. You're obviously here to do his dirty work.”

Tim honestly wasn't sure how to react to that. He was a bit shocked initially, though also humored by the validity of the statement. He decided it'd be safest to allow himself to take to the humor and chuckle.

“Yes. I suppose you are right. Bruce is a very busy man though. He'd have been here if he could.”  
“Don't I know that.” Peters agreed, nodding as if he knew exactly what Tim was talking about. Which was, of course, impossible.

Keeping his calm, neutral mask in place, Tim once again scanned over Peters, taking note of each of the man's characteristics like the detective that he was. Like he had suspected, Peters wasn't one of them. He spoke with a lower Gotham accent, far from how the socialites that filled the room spoke, but he didn't even bother to hide it. In addition to that, no matter how relaxed he let himself on to be, Tim couldn't help but notice how tense Peters appeared in the tux. Clothing he obviously was not used to or comfortable with. Now, Tim couldn't condemn the man for just that. There could be loads of reasons as to why this Maxwell Peters could be attending such event in a tux that wasn't his, especially considering the purpose of the event, but Tim was a paranoid person by profession.

“Take a picture kid, it'll last longer.”

“Ah! Sorry. I didn't mean to stare. It's just-” Tim had to pause when he realized to his horror that his mask had slipped. He quickly rectified that before continuing coolly like the Wayne that he was.

“It's just that, pardon for asking, I don't recall your name being on the guest list.”

“And you have the entire guest list memorized?” Peters scoffed, looking at Tim with a skeptical look. “Check again. I'm sure you'll see my name on the list. After all, I'm here for the same reason as you.”  
“Which is?”

Tim thought he saw the older man's face darken for a fraction of a second, though he couldn't have been sure exactly what he saw before Peters turned his gaze back to him, smiling strangely.

“Granting justice to Gotham's forgotten.”

With those words Peters raised his glass of champagne and quickly finished off the glass. Tim raised his hesitantly, eyes leaving his new acquaintance only to ponder the deeper meaning to his words.   
That is, until a servant with a tray of fresh alcohol glasses walked by, suddenly stumbling and showering Tim's pristine dress shirt and tux jacket in liquid.

Tim shot back in shock, arms wide and body tense at the sudden stickiness of his clothing against his skin. He stared at the wet splotches marring his clothing, the shock morphing into mild annoyance. The servant, on the other hand, was in a state of horror. Eyes wide and face pale, stuttering apologies at a rapid pace, hands switching from going to somehow fix Tim's suit to wanting to clean the shattered shards of glass off the floor.

“Master Wayne, I am so sorry. Please, I don't know what happened. I just somehow- something was...just- please, it was a mistake, please forgive me sir-”

“It's alright, it's alright.” Tim stopped the man, hoping to placate him. “Accidents happen. It's not a big deal. Just be more careful next time and clean up the mess before someone gets hurt.”

The man nodded nervously, and though the terror dissipated marginally, confusion was still clearly evident on his face. Nonetheless, he immediately took off to assumedly retrieve a broom while Tim departed towards the halls of the manor. It wasn't until he had already begun walking away that he realized Peters had disappeared, which really should have interested him more if he wasn't so eager to get out of a wet suit. 

“Hey Alfred.” Tim muttered into his hidden communicator. With both the gala and the current patrol underway, the poor butler had been running himself weary between the party and the cave. Tim had been sure to keep his communicator on him in case he ever needed to contact the butler (or if they needed to contact him). “You have a moment?”

“Yes Master Timothy. What can I do for you?”

“I've had a slight wardrobe malfunction. Would you mind grabbing me a new shirt and jacket? That is, if B doesn't need you right now. I'd do it myself but I shouldn't be gone long. It's only a matter of time before I need to give the speech.”

“It is no problem at all. I have no doubt that Master Bruce has everything under control. I'll retrieve some spares promptly.”

“Thanks Al.” Tim whispered gratefully, “I'll meet you in the outer hall. Oh, and any details on how B and Wing are doing?” 

A brief moment of silence before “Focus on your current mission, Master Timothy.”

 

Not long later and Tim was standing before the family butler, clad in a fresh white dress shirt and new tux jacket. With the skill and fluency that none could rival, Alfred finished retying the younger's tie. The older man scanned over his ward for a brief second before nodding his approval.

“Right as rain, Master Tim. Now, unless you need something else I'd suggest you get back in there before they call you in to give your thank you speech.”

“Bruce's thank you speech.” Tim corrected, not afraid to voice his discontent to the butler. “And he better write another one just for me for putting up with this later.”

Alfred couldn't help but give Tim one of his small, yet endearing smiles. It was a sight that made Tim's heart leap in joy to see and his chest fill with pride. “Which I'll be sure to remind the Master of, no doubt about it.”

Tim returned the smile. His first real smile of the night.

“As always, you're a life saver Al.”

“So I've been told.”

Just as Tim started through the door echoing the sounds of soft music and pointless chatter, he paused, one thing coming to mind.

“Actually, Alfred. Could I ask you to check the guest list for a 'Maxwell Peters' for me?”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Nah. That should be enough. Just let me know what you find on him when you can.”

Back into the masquerade Tim went, sure to don his own mask.

The night continued without much of a hitch. Tim chatted with more of Gotham's self righteous and corrupt, along with a few more like Emma Rassmussen, who really were there to help the city's degenerate. He never caught another glimpse of Maxwell Peters, at least, not until he was standing on the small stage, reciting the tenuous lists of thank you's that Bruce had for all the benefactors of their charity. It was mid-sentence when Tim's gaze suddenly locked onto that strangely familiar one. Peters quirked a sharp eyebrow and his dimpled smirk grew. 

Tim caught himself pausing in his recitation, attention having been completely taken by that smug look and burning blue eyes. Upon realizing his mistake he did his best to speedily rectify, being forced to break his eye contact with Peters in order to do so. By the time he had finished his long speech, Peters had once again vanished, leaving behind nothing but that odd, dark smile imprinted in his mind.

Tim couldn't help but notice that among this den of devils and thieves, this Peters, though the only enigma in the room, was the only one not wearing that damned fake smile. And it bothered Tim all the more.

 

o00o00o00o

Tim enters the cave as soon as he is able, eager to catch up on his work. Free from his tux and dressed in his softest pair of sweats and giant sweat shirt. Armed with a cup of freshly brewed coffee in one hand and an armful of files in the other, he's ready to take on whatever mysteries Gotham has waiting for him. However, he stops suddenly when he realizes that the cave isn't empty.

He hadn't expected Bruce to be back so early. With the amount of leads they had on their perp, he wouldn't have been surprised if Batman and Nightwing were out until the crack of dawn.

Tim took a hasty step forward, mouth opening to speak, eager to learn more about what they had discovered on the Red Hood. But the eagerness quickly fades and his words are silenced when he realizes where Bruce is standing.

Still garbed in his Batman suit, but cowl pushed back to reveal the man beneath. A gauntletless hand pressed up against the glass almost desperately, yet hesitant and gentle. His jaw was tensed and sad blue eyes distant, obviously seeing more than just a singed and tattered suit in a glass case.

A familiar wave of guilt hits Tim so hard that he's compelled to hold his breath. Despite being Robin, despite having been part of this team -this family- for so long, whenever he sees Bruce like this he immediately feels like he shouldn't be here. Not just here interfering on a private moment, but here with Batman and Nightwing. Here with the Waynes. Because he is only here because Robin- because Jason- is dead.

What tortures him more is when his inquisitive mind asks himself what he would do if he had a chance to change this. Would he choose to give up this life of saving people, this life of purpose, this life with a family who cares, if that meant saving his childhood hero and father's son? Tim's been asking himself that for years and is thankful that that will never be an option, because he doesn't know what he'd choose.

Bruce's face visibly hardens, mind emerging from a life long passed and returns to the present, seeming to finally recognize Tim's presence. Without a word he turns, fluidly gliding to the master computer before falling into his seat. He doesn't begin typing right away, a sign that Tim long ago realized was an invitation to join him.

Steeling himself and trying to water down his emotions with logic (a skill he had picked up as a child and mastered with Batman) Tim approached his mentor, greeting him he had initially planned.

“You're back early. Hope that means good news.”

“A waste of time. The explosion was a set up. All of the leads we got were false and led us on a wild goose chase around the city. Never even caught a glimpse of Hood. We interrogated what few members of his gang we could find but they knew nothing.”

Tim's brows crease inquiringly.

“What do you think this means?”

“It means that someone wanted to distract us for some reason. There had to have been something going on in the city that they didn't want us knowing about. Whether by Hood's gang or another. I already have Oracle looking in on a few leads.”

“Dang.” Tim mutters, leaning against the desk top. “What are the chances that it's just another shipment drop off, or a simple recruitment meeting?”

“Not likely. We haven't dealt with someone this wild and unpredictable since the Joker. The Red Hood has more than just a gang take over planned.”

“Great.” Tim sighs into his cooling cup of coffee, allowing the conversation to die into the sound of Batman typing furiously over the keyboard. Tim remains there besides his father/mentor/partner, hovering nearby just in case Batman came across anything that Tim could assist with. In the mean time, Tim relaxed in the silence. Unlike Dick, Tim could easily find solace in the silence that so often overcame the Bat. Just as long as Tim was wanted and needed, he was content.

The typing came to an abrupt stop. Tim glanced up, curious if Batman had found anything. Instead, Bruce questioned him.

“How was the charity gala?”

“The usual.” Tim shrugged. “Tedious and uneventful. But the important thing is that we got the donations needed to start Wayne Enterprise's Crime Alley Rehabilitation project.”

Bruce nodded knowingly, something flashing across his face for a millisecond. Tim knew what it was. He was a genius after all. He knew what- or rather who- inspired the project to be born in the first place. Though Tim ignored this and just kept talking as casually as ever.

“But that doesn't mean that you don't owe me one. Being benched just to pick up after Brucie and entertain you guests and paparazzi. It was the worst.”

“What are you asking of me then?”

“The computer. I've been itching to do some real work all night. You can't deny me this.”

Bruce eyes Tim thoughtfully, obviously admiring Tim's work ethic but seemingly unwilling to pause on his own. Tim realized his mentor may need a little persuading.

“You've been running yourself dry on this case. Less than 4 hours of sleep in the last 36 hours. You should take a breather and refresh your mind. I'll look into the leads.”

Bruce still appeared reluctant but eventually nodded in agreement. Heaving himself up from the chair tiredly, he placed a heavy hand on Tim's shoulder, squeezing it in a rare expression of affection. Honestly, it surprised the teen.

“Thank you for your work tonight.”

Tim barely managed a nod in response before Bruce walked away. He watched the man curiously as he departed. Bruce's voice had been weary, a product of more than just hard work and sleep deprivation. Tim was under the impression that, despite how much each and every member of this family despised social events, Bruce actually felt guilty about missing this particular one. 

We both know that he'd rather you were knocking skulls than making speeches, Bruce.

Tim settled into the chair facing the computer, enjoying the familiarity and comfort that that spot brought him. With the keyboard of the master computer beneath his fingertips, Tim felt unstoppable, being second only to Oracle in his computer managing skills. He scanned over the info Bruce had collected on the Red Hood before minimizing the pages and setting them to the side.

He'd get to the leads later. He had something else he had to look into first.

First Tim brought up the guest list they had from the gala that evening. He hadn't been surprised when Alfred had reported that there was no 'Maxwell Peters' registered on the list, but felt the need to double check. Not that he doubted the man, but Tim had always preferred to see things for himself. 

Sure enough, the name wasn't listed.

“Alright. Who are you, 'Peters'?”

A quick search revealed that there was no 'Maxwell Peters' at all. At least, not any that fit the description of the young adult he met that night. But that too wasn't surprising.

Tim was sure that he was a crook. This man -whatever his real name was- had been awfully familiar. Though he had been unable to pinpoint exactly where. He settled that perhaps they had had a brief run in on the streets as Tim's other persona. This seemed to make the most sense. Besides, it wasn't uncommon to get the occasional thief slinking in on parties to see what they could finger off the walking money bags (that was how Bruce met Selina after all). 

What confused Tim was that nothing was visibly missing. He'd made a mental checklist of all of the Wayne's most valuable and visible heirlooms around the manor, but not a thing had been taken that he knew of. He considered that the man had only been interested in what he could sneak from the patrons' pockets, but Tim honestly thought that was a waste of potential. But then again, Tim had never been the best at understanding the minds of crooks. They rarely ran off of logic.

Chewing on his cheek, Tim brought up the security feed, running through the visuals of the gala. Despite finding nothing missing, Tim's theory was pretty solid, but as he looks at the footage, he almost begins to doubt it.

There is absolutely no sign of 'Peters'. He does not appear in a single frame. According to the footage, he'd never came, and he'd never left. Even in scenes where Tim was sure he had seen him, there was not even a blimp of him. It was as if he had never been there at all.

That's when a small fraction of Tim's calculating mind almost believes that Peters had been a ghost.

Tapping his fingers anxiously at the side of the keyboard, Tim contemplates the severity of what he had discovered. But seeing as he can't come up with a single reason as to how this Houdini could possibly pose any threat, Tim pushes the mystery aside. He decides against bringing it up to Bruce. The man has enough on his plate to worry about a ghost Tim saw. Instead, he returns his attention to the files Bruce had on the Red Hood. This striving crime lord was infinitely more important to focus on anyways. 

Though not more than 20 minutes into his work, Tim found it suddenly impossible to focus. Not with the heavy presence behind him. The feeling was akin to feeling watched, making his skin prickle and lungs feel heavy. Resigning himself to accept the phantom, Tim swiveled around in his chair until he was staring at the familiar, battered red suit, forever preserved behind that glass case.

The large hand print left behind by his mentor did not go unnoticed and only served as a reminder of how fragile the seemingly indestructible Batman could be. Like one of the priceless vases that Dick and Tim had shattered earlier in his tenure as Robin during an acrobatics demonstration. The two of them, along with the help of a disgruntled Alfred, were able to successfully reconstruct the item with crazy glue, but...it never did fit quite the same, nor did their fix hide all the cracks. 

Tim continued to gaze at the empty suit, remembering the time he had stalked the boy who wore it gingerly through dark alley ways and over treacherous rooftops. All so he could get a glimpse of his heroes that no one else could. All he'd wanted was to get to know them; to help them. How many times as a child had he wanted to just knock on the giant doors of the Wayne manor? Or approach the vigilantes on their nightly patrol and admit that he knew everything? 

Despite those dreams, Tim had never ever actually imagined that he'd someday be one of them. Seated in front of the giant bat monitors in the batcave and actually have the privilege to call it home. His child self would have died of an aneurysm if he had known.

Those memories that the suit had summoned brought another to mind. Instead of Robin, he saw Jason Todd. Memories of his irritated glares and disgruntled sighs at being stuffed inside an expensive suit. If there was one thing Tim remembered from this version of Jason Todd, it was that he was unlike the rest of the Waynes. He had never worn the same mask as his family: putting on fake smiles with a voice dripping in cheap laughter and bloated praise. Instead, he had allowed the public to see him without really seeing him. This had given the teen a bad reputation, but Jason didn't seem to care.

Tim could never do that. He cared too much about others opinion of him. He knew that wasn't healthy, but he couldn't help it. He considered it souvenir from his upbringing. Instead, like the rest of the family, he wore his public persona as a Wayne like another mask. It was something he could control. Something that the real Tim could hide behind and rely on to protect their identities. Jason never quite needed to do that. 

Despite what Tim thought, despite what he was capable of, Tim admired that about Jason.

 

“You wouldn't happen to know what this Red Hood figure is up to?” he asked, breaking the tense silence.

The case remained silent. Not that Tim had been expecting anything different. He spoke to Jason's case too often for him to (not that he'd ever admit that to anyone).

“Figures you wouldn't share. I bet you have it all figured out already. Dick still brags about how you could figure out their motives the fastest. That you could predict their next moves in a heart beat.” A product of living off the streets, no doubt. “ Bruce never admits it, especially now, but I think that both impressed and frightened him.” 

Nothing but the humming of the computer and the occasional screeching of bats echoing off the cave walls. 

Tim imagined that judging by the image of Jason that he'd created in his mind based on his personal observations and stories from his family, his brother would be laughing at them right now. Watching them squirm under the stress of the case before telling them to move aside and let him take care of it. 

Accepting the silence, Tim turned back to the monitor to resume his work. He took another sip from his mug only to find it cold. He made a mental note to start another pot of coffee.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.

 

It wouldn't be until months later that Tim would recall that night; realize the irony of his questioning. 

After a bloodied clown, a loaded gun, and an impossible proposition. 

It wouldn't be until after seeing Bruce return to the cave with a look of despair, unlike any he had ever seen, carved into those usually stoic features that Tim would remember the man at the party with that bitter smile. 

It wouldn't be until then that Tim would discover the hack, encrypted and hidden skillfully within the firewalls of the Batcave's computer system, and tampered cameras.

It wouldn't be until after all this that Tim would recheck that guest list, this time searching in a spot no one had bothered to look for a name no one had expected to see. 

Sure enough, written as plain as day and as glaringly painful as that glass case was a single name:  
Jason P. Todd

**Author's Note:**

> Jason Todd is clearly my favorite, but I think Tim is my favorite to write. Especially from his fanboy POV of the Waynes.
> 
> Sister fic to my other story: The Waynes Sell Papers. You'll notice some similar themes.
> 
> Kudos, Bookmarks and comments are ALWAYS loved and appreciated.


End file.
